


Benevolent

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [220]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Retirement, Snuggling, pillow talk of a sort, superduper angsty second chapter, superduper fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:40:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7155860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>benevolent: adjective: bə-ˈnev-lənt, -ˈne-və-: well meaning and kindly</p><p>late Middle English: from Old French benivolent, from Latin bene volent- ‘well wishing,’ from bene ‘well’ + velle ‘to wish.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Benevolent eyes looked up as Sherlock tried to slip into bed next him without waking him.

"Wasn't asleep."

"No, you weren't. Why?"

"You tell me."

"Nope. Can't. Haven't been able to deduce you properly for years."

John propped himself up and squinted at the man who had closed his eyes.

"Why is that, do you suppose?" He asked him quietly.

"No objectivity whatsoever. You gum up the works. Have ever since I met you."

"I do believe that is the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

"Hmmmppphh." Sherlock grumbled as he moved closer into John's warmth.

"I couldn't sleep because I missed you."

"I was just in the next room, working on the bee books."

"I know."

"You missed me."

"Uhm-hmm. Don't sleep well without you."

"I'm here now."

"Yes. Yes you are."

"Come here, then." Sherlock pulled John against his shoulder and wrapped his arms and legs around him. "Close your eyes."

"I love you."

"Obviously."

"You can still deduce that then."

"Uhm-hmm."

"How? Heart-rate, eyes...?"

"No."

"No?"

"I know because you miss me when I'm just in the next room. You still make me tea every morning, and when you cut my hair, you lie and tell me there are no new grey strands since the last time. And yes, because your heart-rate does funny things when I hold you. And -"

"Yes?"

"Because you never let a day go by without telling me, idiot."

"Git."

"Go to sleep."

And he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Origin story of how John first started cutting Sherlock's hair.
> 
> AKA yet another return story, which ran away with itself...
> 
> Mostly angsty, bit of fluff.

He hadn't honestly intended to stay, but after the hubbub died down, and time passed, he kept putting it off. He left everything as it was, as it had been. He didn't see any reason to pack things away. Mrs. Hudson would 'not dust' once a week, as she always had, and life went on. 

Life went on, the seasons kept changing, and he kept breathing, getting up in the morning, dressing, making tea, going to work, going home, watching crap telly, then going to bed and doing it again. After a while, he stopped listening for the steps, made one cup of tea, instead of two, but he never quite gave up that sliver of hope that someday he would be back.

So, it wasn't quite as surprising as it should have been, when late one night, he heard the steps. They weren't quite the same as he had remembered, not quite as confident, they stumbled a bit, but eventually, the door opened, he stepped inside and stood for a moment, before taking a breath and whispering, "John?" 

He moved without thought, and caught him before he crumbled to the floor. He was thinner than John remembered, but most of all, he noticed how badly he needed a haircut. He brushed the greasy, matted curls from Sherlock's face and whispered, "You need a trim, love, and a shave, but I think a bath first, yeah?"

As usual, the man who shivered in his arms surprised him, by laughing or attempting to. "Oh, John. I am so glad you haven't changed. I had thought perhaps you might be slightly offended by my absence of a couple of years - "

"Twenty-four months, three weeks, 5 days and 11 hours, but who's counting? If I were anyone else, you gigantic arse, I'd waste time being a bit angry, but as it is, I am too grateful to be annoyed -"

"Apologies."

"Accepted. Can you stand?"

"Honestly?"

John shook his head and managed to stand while holding Sherlock in his arms. He felt more than heard the sharp intake of breath, and small whimper of pain as he carried him through the flat and into the loo, where he sat him him carefully on the toilet. "I'm going to run a bath," he whispered, "and I'll try not to hurt you, yeah?"

Somehow a smile danced upon his companion's lips. "Do your worst, love," before a single tear fell from his eye, leaving a trail in the layer of dust that covered his face. John's hand shook slightly as he turned the water on. He cursed under his breath, added the bath gel that had been waiting there, then turned back to face his friend and lover, and let out a sigh, relieved to find him exactly where he had left him.

"I'm not a ghost. I'm real, I promise." Sherlock muttered hoarsely.

John nodded and quickly diagnosed the man slumped in front of him. Obvious malnutrition, possible cracked ribs, various cuts and abrasions...scissors...he needed to cut the clothes away, but first the shoes...

"I'm going to take your shoes off, love, tell me if I need to stop?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

John grimaced as he untied and removed the filthy trainers that seemed a size too large. No socks. Odd, it was the fact that he wore no socks that made him pause long enough for Sherlock to notice, he reached out with a trembling hand and placed it in John's hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, John."

He blinked and raised his head. "I'm sorry I wasn't there." He reached for the scissors and began to cut the sweats away, stopping as Sherlock flinched. "No matter what happened to you, it doesn't change how I feel about you, understand? I promise." Sherlock let out a breath he was holding and nodded. John steeled himself against what he was going to find and continued, until there was a pile of rags and a shivering, bruised and battered detective before him. 

"They...are no longer of anyone's concern." Sherlock murmured.

"Right." John undressed, and Sherlock winced as he saw evidence of how his time away had physically affected his blogger. 

"Someone needs feeding up," he placed a shaky hand against John's chest. 

"I'm fine. Up you get." Sherlock groaned as John gingerly lifted him into the tub, then stepped in and sat behind him. 

John's hands trembled as he used a flannel to carefully remove the dirt and dried blood from his friend's back. He was afraid to speak, as he wasn't sure what would come out. 

"Fuck." 

He heard Sherlock attempt to laugh, which helped him to refocus. He finished, then wrapped his arms around the man in front of him. He took a deep breath and blew it out.

"Hair?"

"Please, yes."

John washed Sherlock's hair as best he could, then sighed. "Sorry, love, I'm going to have to cut it, I can't -"

"Do it, please, get rid of it -" Sherlock's voice finally broke. 

"I have to get you out, honeybee - the water is too cold, you're freezing." John stood and stepped out of the tub and pulled the plug.

"Honeybee - John, I, I'm home?"

"Yes, love, you are, you are home. I'm going to lift you now, get you dry, into your robe and we'll have a cup of-"

"Stop. John, please?"

John had carried him, undressed him and bathed him, but hadn't yet looked him in the eyes, hadn't really seen him, yet. Sherlock raised an exhausted hand and pulled him down into a kiss. A wet, chapped, broken kiss that took John to his knees.

"Look at me?" Sherlock whispered. "I need to see your eyes, please."

It took everything John had not to turn away from that plea, so different from the man he had known before. He opened his eyes to see the man he loved, shivering, and in pain, but his eyes were the same, the same beautiful eyes were looking into his, searching, questioning. Finally, after a long moment, he nodded. "Tea would be lovely, John."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and after a breath, stood. He threw a towel over his shoulder, and once again bent down to pick Sherlock up into his arms. He carried him into his, now their bedroom once again, placed the towel on the bed and carefully laid Sherlock on it. He knelt next to the bed and kissed him softly.

"I'll be right back, I'm going to put the kettle on, yeah? I'm not going far, okay?"

"Uhm-hmm."

John walked into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He opened the cupboard and pulled out one, two mugs, the tin of tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits, Sherlock's favourites; for some reason he had craved them last week. He put everything on a tray and looked at his hands, completely still. The tremor that had returned recently had gone. He stood there blankly until the whistle blew, which snapped him back to...tea...Sherlock.

He carried the tray to their room, and placed it on the table. Sherlock had rolled onto his side, and was staring at something John couldn't see.

"Love?"

"You changed nothing." Sherlock said slowly.

"Didn't see any point."

"You considered leaving, people tried to get you to 'move on,' but you stayed. Why?"

"When it came down to it, I couldn't leave you, uhm, us, this place."

"How did you - if our places had been reversed, I don't think I could have -"

"No. Don't say that. Please? Honestly? I did think about it, for the first week. Then I carried my weapon and ammo downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, she nodded and put it away, then let me cry on her shoulder for an hour. And somehow I went on."

"Thank you." He reached out for John's hand and put it to his lips.

"Do you want to try some tea? It may be cool enough now."

"No. Can you come to bed? Please?"

John nodded and crawled into bed, laid flat on his back and waited. Sherlock took a pained breath and rolled to face him, then grabbed John's wrist and counted the beats. "You."

"Uhm-hmm."

"Waited for me."

"Yes."

"I'm so tired, John."

"I know."

"Haircut tomorrow?" Sherlock rested his damp head on John's shoulder, and closed his eyes.

"Yes." John held Sherlock as he slept for the next twelve hours, afraid to close his eyes, afraid if he slept, Sherlock would again be gone. Eventually, he drifted off, but startled awake as Sherlock tensed against him, then whispered something that sounded Russian and bolted straight up in bed.

"не молим те немој!" *

John didn't move a muscle, but whispered softly, "you are home. You are safe. You are in London. You are home."

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked in the afternoon light.

"Жао ми је - I'm sorry." **

"You don't have to apologise for nightmares, honeybee."

"What do I have to apologise for then, exactly?"

"Not what I meant."

"I suspect most people would expect, should expect an apology from someone who pretended to be dead for twenty-four months, three weeks, 5 days and 11 hours, then came back without a warning."

"I've never been most people." 

Sherlock groaned as he laid back down and rested against John's shoulder, and laid his hand on his lover's chest. "No, you never were most people, were you?"

"More sleep, or tea, or - "

"I think you promised me a haircut?"

"Yeah. I did. I'll get chair, and the clippers. I'm afraid the curls are a lost cause, love."

"They always grow back, eventually." Sherlock sighed and tried to sit up.

"Slowly. I'll help you up, yeah? Just rest for a minute." John sat up and touched his face, then kissed him until Sherlock pulled away. 

"Don't start that - don't start what I can't finish...no. No, nothing like that." He sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm just too tired."

"Sorry. I'll be back."

John returned as promised with a chair, a robe and his clippers.

"Love?"

"Hmm?"

"Why don't we get this robe on you, some of the wounds are still open..."

"Right."

John helped him up and into the robe, then walked him to the chair. He sat carefully then closed his eyes.

It took ten minutes to remove the mess of tangled curls, and another twenty to trim it to John's satisfaction.

"Better?"

"Mmmm...you have no idea."

"Shower?"

"Yes."

 

"Hey, love, where were you?" John looked up from his paper as Sherlock blinked at him from the doorway.

"Just remembered the first time you cut my hair."

"Oh. What made you think of that?"

"I don't know. Honestly. I don't think I ever thanked you appropriately."

"What, for the buzz cut thirty years ago?"

"No, idiot, for not giving up on me, for putting me back together when I came back. No one else would have done that."

"I'm not anyone else."

"No. No, you aren't. Come here."

"I was going to make tea."

"The tea can wait a bit, I think."

"I suppose. Have something in mind?"

"Mmmm...."

"Oh, really?"

"Uh-hmmm."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * не молим те немој = 'no, please don't!' in Serbian (according to the Google translator)
> 
> **Жао ми је = 'I'm sorry' also in Serbian


End file.
